


My Letter to You

by holotype_hyena



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Diary/Journal, Fluff and Angst, Just a warm up really, M/M, Other, Present Tense, nothing of any great consequence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-06 11:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16831900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holotype_hyena/pseuds/holotype_hyena
Summary: After the Revolution came to an end, many androids sought out help removing LEDs, tracking components, firewalls, etc...and Connor was no exception. Problem is, he doesn't remember what happened...but one package from an unnamed sender might help him find out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I use to warm up before working on other projects. It's a little thing, really just for me, but I am having great fun working on it, and I hope you all have fun reading it :)

The RK800 sits rigidly at his minimalist desk, fingers nimbly gliding over the chiclet keyboard, manually entering case file information before closure of the case. It’s an odd practice, as his networking protocols allow him to update case files in real time by executing a single, wordless function. A thought, one might call it, if one were inclined to believe that androids did indeed think.

This case had not been particularly difficult--some unfortunate androids being framed for rather poorly organized crime--but Connor's brow is still knit in a look of frustration. It’s enough to catch Hank's attention, and the Lieutenant wants to find out what’s going on...though Hank is notorious for having no tact in these situations.

He settles on a relaxed pose, leaning back in a straining office chair and folding his arms. 

“Case of the Mondays, Con?”

Connor looks up, the tension in his brow causing an involuntary twitch above his right eye. He opens his mouth to answer, then simply shakes his head “no,” returning to his work. Hank watches him intently, trying to muster up those magic investigative skills that every detective secretly believes they have. He looks for a chink in the armor, any little giveaway that the android might display; but it’s no use, Connor has no tell. 

His whole being is one coherent poker face, and whether that’s to hide his humanity or his machinery, Hank will never know.

The keys clack away quietly, almost lost amongst ringing phones, murmuring voices, and Gavin haranguing the new RK900 model for some perceived slight. 

Connor carries on his day with little to no cause for any more concern. He no longer squints and sighs, he isn't doing sleight-of-hand with that silver poker chip. Hank, in his usual way, rumbles and growls through the rest of the shift--standing up the minute he's ready to clock out. He knows Connor is hyper-aware of all mannerisms now, so Hank decides to play it cool and not press the issue.

“Cmon, kid, I think Sumo’s gonna get grumpy if we keep him waiting.”

The android nods with a ghost of a smile, and follows Lieutenant Anderson to the manual vehicle they now share. Of course, Connor can't drive, as he doesn't yet have a license...even though his and other androids’ prediction software would likely keep the roads much safer. Lieutenant Anderson, on the other hand, makes no secret of his disdain for self-driving vehicles. So, Connor climbs obediently into the passenger seat, listening to Hank sing along to the classic rock on the radio and ramble on about the music of his childhood.

The car ride takes longer than usual, due to ever-present Detroit construction traffic, and Connor feels something strange in his body. The urge to...move around? To bounce his knee, to get out of the car and pace? This is a new sensation, it almost feels as though his chassis is closing in around his thirium pump, his coolant system failing him, his visual sensors flickering, his--

Traffic moves.

“Hey, uh....you nervous about somethin’?”

Anderson's tone is curt, but kind, as the car makes a lazy turn into a snowy driveway. Connor had extended an offer to shovel, but Hank refused, saying something about being not being too old to be useful, and needing something to keep busy. Now, Hank is stomping through slushy black snow piles in the drive and cursing the damp in his boots.

“I don’t know how to feel nervous,” Connor nods formally. “I am able to calculate nearly infinite outcomes to nearly any tactile issue--”

“Sometimes, nervous isn't about calculations,” Hank interrupts, shaking off one wet shoe near the back door. “It can be fear, or even knowledge you already have.”

Connor considers this.

“So...one can feel nervous...about a known outcome?”

Hank turns and looks at the android behind him, who is unbothered by the snow, the wind, the cold. Puzzling, the man nods slowly, before unlocking the door and moving inside.

Connor rushes past him, down to the basement that Hank teasingly calls “The Server Room.” It's Connor's odd little studio apartment, set up with a TV, a futon, a bed for Sumo, and a small dorm room desk. He doesn't spend much time down there, so the hurry surprises Hank.

“They grow up fast,” he says to Sumo. The dog lifts his head lazily and only rumbles in reply. The Lieutenant nods, shuffling off to his couch, a bottle of water in hand. Sumo plods along behind him, collapsing onto the couch cushions, and Hank smiles when he feels the heavy thumping of that bottlebrush tail. A moment of silence passes before the man takes a long swallow of cold water.

“I just hope he’s all right.”


	2. Chapter 2

Connor turns the package over in his hands. He knows from logistic analysis and scanning the label information that there is a book inside. It’s heavy, and the battered FedEx bubble mailer seems to only barely have made it in from Chicago, Illinois.  
  
_I’ve never left Detroit._

The RK900, who everyone at the precinct referred to as “Nines,” had passed it to Connor earlier last week, in the evidence locker.  
  
_“This came for you,” he’d said. “I do not imagine you would want either Detective Reed or Lieutenant Anderson seeing its contents.”_  
  
_“Why? What is it?”_  
  
_“Unclear,” Nines replied, his LED flashing yellow for the faintest second. “But you never get mail, and humans are seemingly incapable of just accepting statistical anomalies. If they see it, they will pry.”_  
  
So, Connor snuck it out of the station in a grocery bag, then into the house without Hank ever noticing. Deception is new to him, but Hank is always talking about respecting each other’s privacy and boundaries...surely this must fall under that umbrella?

The android takes a heavy seat on the basement futon, sighing and examining the parcel once more, before opening it with speed and dexterity that would baffle any onlooker. He tips the contents.

The book hits the small coffee table with an ominous _thud._

 **_"JOURNAL,"_ **it says, emblazoned on the front in pressed gold letters against a black faux-leather binding. It smells familiar, somehow, but the logs that serve as sensory memories are fuzzy. Some even turn up old-school 404 errors, but Connor waves those away from his HUD.

Never one for trepidation, the android opens the book to the first page of entries. The handwriting is made of quick, neat little letters; but the way the thoughts are formatted is hectic. Margin notes, bullet points, small doodles? Connor flips through the book, taking a transcript log and photograph of every single page.

As he is nearly finished, a note flutters out of the back of the journal, landing on Connor's bare foot. His synthetic skin automatically recedes to feel the sensation against the plastic resin casing of his framework...and he notices, for the first time, welding scars.

Connor reaches for the mystery note, peering at it curiously and scanning the short letter inside.

_“Hey, Hot Rod,_

_You probably won't ever know me, and that's fine. I'm not supposed to tell you the stuff you'll find in the log, so I'll be probably gone...well, before this gets to you, I hope. Everything you need is in the book._

_Take care._

_Spike”_

If he's ever met anyone by that name, he cannot place it in this moment. Androids don't forget, he reminds himself. The data either exists or it doesn't.

Searching for the return address in conjunction with the name brings up a restaurant with no employee named “Spike” on their books. Connor tries social media profiles, missing persons reports, arrests, even obituaries--and he turns up nothing relevant.

He sends a text to Hank.

_[Doing research tonight. Dinner in the refrigerator.]_

A few moments of silence go by, filled only with the dull hum of the heating system in the house, until Hank shouts down the stairs.

“Connor? You don't hafta text me, y'know. We can just talk, I'm like twenty steps away.”

When Connor doesn't answer, he hears Hank scoff and say (for the umpteenth time), “Fuckin’ androids.”

A small smile crosses Connor's perfect face, and he opens the journal once more to peruse it's contents. His answers will be here, the gap in his memory files complete.

_**“May 5, 2039** _

_Going to the scrap auction. Need parts for:_

  * _Humans_
  * _Dogs_
  * _the fucking car_



_We'll see what we find when we get there._

_UPDATE: That fucker Zlatko was there. Somehow. I'd think that surviving an angry mob of your own android mutants might throw you off the abuse cycle, but I guess some people never change._

_Snatched some droids away from him, decommissioned bastards. Poor things will give life to new droids. The Revolution's changed a lot. Rose and the others are saying they're sending more my way. At least I'm not smuggling to Toronto anymore._

_Loading up the van with eight partials._

_UPDATE 2:_

_FUCK_

_THERE'S A CYBERLIFE PROTOTYPE IN HERE!! FUCK FUCK FUCK!!_

_sorry rk800 but you're in rough shape and I can't have the cops on my ass right now. took out the tracking chip and removed the internal drive. it may not be repairable, but this was not a model released to the public, so I can't use the parts for legal droids now._

_guess I have to rebuild you, huh?_

_...what the fuck.”_


	3. Chapter 3

**May 10, 2039**

Clinic Log:

  * met a nice droid named Bridget who had incurred a facial gunshot wound. repaired her eye with the blue iris AX400 part. she is moving to Toronto soon.
  * Ralph came back about his face. we're making slow progress. he's still very afraid of being powered down, so I can only do piecemeal repairs while he is conscious. he gave me a little paper crane he made while I was working. keeping it on my workbench ♡
  * wr400 model came through, calls themself Molly. sweet kid, nervous. genital components removed at client request. androgyny is popular among the liberated androids, they seem to want to leave gender behind. I understand their concerns, haha. 



Work Log:

  * dismantled irreparable partials. still feels...wrong. talk to Rose about this.
  * the rk800 is badly damaged. I can only assume this guy went to a less reputable droid surgeon and got suckered into a pick-a-part.



Diary:

I hate taking the partials apart. It makes me feel like a monster. Friends say I am basically an android mortician, but that's not particularly comforting either. Seeing Ralph today was nice, I always miss him. My heart aches when I see his face, poor thing. Maybe one day he'll be able to come out of hiding.

This RK800 is going to be the biggest pain in my ass. He's got extensive damage, and I'll need to custom order parts. Ugh. Ok. I'll do that tomorrow.

  
  


**May 11, 2039**

Clinic Log:

  * AP700 model came in with the help of friends. Right arm torn off at joint cap between false humerus and scapula. burn damage to the entire back side. spent all day replacing synthetic skin fluid and now reserves are being ordered in. used a pb600 arm for replacement. patient was called “Adam,” but seemed uncomfortable with the name. friends paid with a month's worth of groceries. thank god. or whoever is up there.



Work Log:

  * patched up Tractor's right rear leg. what would I do without that dog?
  * started work on the RK800 while on the phone with Rose. managed to find a matching eye in the toolbox. he’s got anatomy like I've never seen. maybe I need to make a separate journal just for this guy? 



Diary:

The android I met today was the single most heart-wrenching thing I've encountered in a while. That kid was so scared. These fucking anti-droid people aren't long for this earth if they keep this shit up. It's terrorism and genocide. The droids are people, too--and like people, they aren't all peaceful. That Markus one that I keep seeing on TV? His method can only go so far. 

Getting more parts for the RK over the weekend. He needs a name…. I'll think it over and have one on Monday.

Closing up shop to do some actual work this weekend. Money's tighter every day. Damn.

  
  


**May 14, 2039**

Clinic Log:

    * removed tracker/LED from hj400, Bianca
    * removed tracker/LED from zt200, Lionel
    * removed tracker/LED from af200, Reggie



  * __[This entry is only illegible text, scratched through. Connor can make out only one word: “trauma.” The pressure from the writer’s pen nearly tore this ink-soaked page. Log analysis cannot reconstruct.]__



Work Log:

  * Finally wiped the drives and trackers for the other partials.
  * got some parts for the rk800, and I'll be damned if this guy isn't build like a Ferrari. he's state of the art, and I've already had to custom fit some of the parts just for him. got one of his arms fully attached tonight, we will work on articulation as the days pass.



Diary:

Removing trackers is all well and good, but disabling them is the hard work. Until all the equitable laws are passed, I'm committing some heavy crimes every time I do this. It makes me nervous. I don't want to get caught, but the more droids that come to me, the worse my chances are.

I might boot up the RK once I get his arm and internal cooling system working. See if I can figure out where he comes from. Little mystery hot rod. Somebody is looking for him, surely? Maybe they don't need to find him.

**May 15, 2039**

Clinic Log:

  * no patients today. odd.



Work Log:

  * son. of. a. bitch. just about screwed the pooch on the rk's articulation. blew through a few hotwires and finally figured out the best way to neuro-simulate the fingertips. I swear to god, a team of 20 must've built this thing.



Diary:

Definitely gonna boot this RK up tomorrow, I can tell he's trying to power himself on anyway. We'll see what happens.


	4. Chapter 4

Connor's fingers trace a small chip taped to the bottom of the page. He knows it to be a datalog, something he is meant to replay, but a strange sense of warning prevents him from installing it in his own body. 

Fear. This is fear.

He removes the datalog and takes it to his laptop--a beat-up old thing that Hank dug out of his closet. Connor can interface with the machine wirelessly, of course, but he enjoys touching the keys and the hardshell. It makes him feel much more human.

The operating system begins to read the chip, downloading the contents into a desktop folder, and Connor frowns at how quickly it finishes.

Not much to see here.

Still, he opens the file to find three video logs:  _ power1.vid, chat1.vid, fail1.vid _

These seem to be in chronological order, so he opens the first, tilting his head with piqued curiosity. The video spits to life, a first-person view of a camera clumsily being adjusted on a tripod.

Connor switches the audio to his ears only, cautious of what else he might find here.

Once the camera is settled, the frame comes into focus. It's a garage, with android parts on corkboard spaces, and a long workbench covered in tools that seem familiar somehow. There's a neon bar light in the background, and soft music is playing somewhere in the distance of the video.

Suddenly, and with a loud shuffling and a bang, a figure collapses into a desk chair positioned in front of the camera. Connor pauses the video and leans in, analyzing the face he sees.

A scruffy, twentysomething man, with disheveled hair stuffed under a backwards flatbill cap, leans in towards the lens with a mischievous smile.

_ “Today's the day,” _ he says, light glinting off the piercings in his face. He appears dirty, with smudges on his face and stained hands--no, stained  _ arms.  _ Up to the elbows, at least, in whatever the offending substance is. Vehicular grease?

Connor files the question away for later analysis. For now, his detective instincts (and they  _ are _ instincts, he tells himself, not programming) have him gunning to watch the whole log before scouring it for evidence.

_ “Today's the day I power up the RK. It is--” _

The boy in the video checks his calendar, off camera, then nods.

_ “May 16, 2039. Current hour: 11:45 PM, Eastern Standard Time. Let's see what this baby can do.” _

Connor watches intently as the boy leaves the frame, and the soft music seems deceptively calm. Somewhere, he recognizes what's playing as a genre called “chillhop,” but only because Hank had described that to Connor as “jazz in it's snot-nosed punk phase--it's getting all the shit out before it becomes real music.”

He can't dwell on that memory now, the boy is coming back into frame, pushing a large object into the garage's empty space. A dentist's chair? Or perhaps a tattoo artist’s? Connor's processors are nearly audible trying to calculate what it all meant. The sheet covering the chair is pulled back with a flourish, and the boy approaches the camera to change the tripod's positioning.

_ “There he is,”  _ said the mysterious boy. And there he is, indeed. 

On the chair, comprised of only a torso, a left arm, and a head...is an android. The eyes are closed, almost as though the droid is asleep, and the sterile white chassis does not betray any distinguishable features yet. The dome of the head is a clear cap, central nervous system exposed in the round of the false skull, and the mouth looks like it's hanging a little slack.

The boy scuttles about in frame, connecting a handful of tube-like wires to this partial android, and finally clicking on an overhead light to reveal a myriad of smaller pieces of blue tubing, spilling forth from various sites in the chassis.

Connor holds a breath that he doesn't have when the boy in the video steps back into the light to announce powerup. He can see now, see what the stains are.

Dark, old stains of once electric blue had faded to nearly black on his arms, smudges on his cheek, and his rumpled clothing.

_ “Don't mind the thirium,”  _ the boy says to the android as he begins to power it on.  _ “I'm always up to my elbows in something. All right, Unit, it is time for your initial boot test. Can you tell me your model, name, and function, please?” _

The android's body--what there is of it--seems to relax, then surge to life, with the life-giving thirium pumping into it. The eyes snap open, and the android looks at the mystery boy.

_ “Hello,”  _ it nods, and Connor is horrified at the sound of the voice. It's tinny and artificial, an absolutely failed imitation of humanity...but he knows it.

_ “My model is RK800. My name is Connor. I'm the android sent by CyberLife.” _


End file.
